


just the rushing wind on a rolling mind

by longituddeonda



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, Meet-Cute, Pacific Northwest, Waiters & Waitresses, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:00:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24567331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longituddeonda/pseuds/longituddeonda
Summary: He turns around and you can now see his face, no longer obscured by the dark shadow of his hood in the poorly-lit part of the building. You recognize him. He’s the man who has come in every three or four weeks for the past year. Always during the slow times. Usually smelling a bit like the woods. Often with a tired look in his eyes, not the kind that comes from over-exhaustion and boredom, but the kind that comes with doing invigorating work for extended periods. The tiredness that calls for some warm food and rest before it can cede to a passion of sorts.or, reader is a waitress at a restaurant in the mountains. frankie is a backpacker who often stops by after his trips.
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

You look up when you hear the door creak open. It’s been a slow day and you’ve only got seven customers total in the entire restaurant right. The smell of the fire burning in the center of the wall opposite you is so much stronger when not dampened by the usual flow of people and the wafting scents of food from the kitchen. 

While you had been able to see the rain out the windows, running down in constant rivulets on the glass all day long, you didn’t realize how heavy it was until the man walked in. Through the open door, the downpour paired with the wind rushing through the expanse of evergreens that surround your little roadside stop is almost deafening. Despite the large, roofed, wrap-around porch, some of the percipitation manages to make its way inside along with your new guest. Usual weather here, you suppose. You’re glad you get to be inside today. The restaurant is much more forgiving and comfortable than your own home.

You make a mental note to check in with the cats that live on the property. They usually take refuge on the beds set up underneath the benches on the porch, but sometimes, when the weather is like this, you let them into the back room. 

The man slides off his raincoat revealing a tee-shirt and large, muscular arms. You can even see the muscles spreading across his back.

He turns around and you can now see his face, no longer obscured by the dark shadow of his hood in the poorly-lit part of the building. You recognize him. He’s the man who has come in every three or four weeks for the past year. Always during the slow times. Usually smelling a bit like the woods. Often with a tired look in his eyes, not the kind that comes from over-exhaustion and boredom, but the kind that comes with doing invigorating work for extended periods. The tiredness that calls for some warm food and rest before it can cede to a passion of sorts. 

“Table for one,” he says. His smile is wide and his voice warmer than this place on a summer day. 

You walk him over to one of the small tables against the windows overlooking the creek, not that you can see much of it with the white haze of rain. He settles into a chair and the way his body melts into it reminds you of all the hikers and loggers who stop by, this restaurant their first chance to relax in days. 

“Do you want any coffee?” you ask while handing him the menu. 

“Please,” he says. 

You walk over to grab the pot, using the time to recollect yourself. There’s no question that he’s an attractive man, and while you’ve never set out to date any of your customers, there’s no harm in having a friendly discussion. It wouldn’t hurt to know his name, right?

Back at his table, you pour a mug of coffee and he asks what you recommend.

“My favorite is that sandwich,” you say, pointing to something on the menu. “But you’ve ordered that one before, right?”

He appears to be a bit shocked that you recognize him, but the look on his face morphs into a smile as he chuckles. “I have. It’s my favorite, so I guess you have good taste.”

“I like to think I do,” you say. 

“I’m Frankie,” he says. 

“Nice to meet you, Frankie.” You give him your name. “You’re not one of the 200 people who live up here, so what brings you out so far from everything?”

“Backpacking. There’s lots of good trails around here and when you’re heading back down into the city it’s always nice to stop for food. I like it here.”

“The city? I didn’t take you for a city person.”

“I’m not. Not really,” Frankie says. “But that’s where my job is right now, if I can keep it.”

“I get what you mean.” You nod and he turns back to the menu.

“Is the rainbow trout good?” He asks. He’s smiling up at you expectantly, and his face is lit by the soft bright light of the window and the stained glass lamp casts all manners of greens, reds, and yellows across him. He’s beautiful. 

“It is. Do you want that?” 

“Why not.” He closes up the menu and hands it back to you. You smile at him before spinning on your heels to go let the kitchen know. 

.

It’s been a month since Frankie introduced himself and you still haven’t seen him. It’s unusual to be so caught up on the  _ who _ of the people coming through the door, but honestly? You miss him. On the busy days, you’re a little slower, distractedly scanning the crowds of people coming in and out, hoping that the other waiters won’t take him before you get to talk. On the slow days, you find yourself staring expectantly at the door, sometimes even peeking out the windows to the parking lot, hoping for someone to pull in. Hoping for him. It’s a bit silly, you know that. But you want to see him again. 

You turn back around to check in on the tables you’re waiting, take some orders, and make some conversation with the regulars. You’re aware of the door opening and closing, somewhat regularly, and customers entering. But you’re not the only one working right now, there are a couple other coworkers who will help seat them. It doesn’t even cross your mind that any of them could be Frankie until you walk over to the man who was seated in your area and it’s him.

“Frankie,” you exclaim. It’s almost an exhale. “Good afternoon, how have you been?”

“Pretty well, all things considered,” he nods. He’s wearing a grimy grey shirt and mud-covered hiking pants. It’s cleaner than some of your clientele. You assume he’s been out backpacking again.

“All things considered?”

“Yeah, well, life’s been a bit crazy, you know? Girlfriend broke up with me and my job’s been taking just about every second of my life,” he says. 

You swallow. So he’s single, that’s good.

You mentally slap yourself for that thought. You can’t be focusing on that when you’re having a conversation with him. 

“Oh, well, I’m sorry, that’s a lot to go through,” you say. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “Not to minimize my problems, but it kind of seems like something I can manage, it’s not terrible in the grand scheme of things.”

“Yeah, but emotionally…” you trail off. That felt out of line as soon as you said it.

“I’ll get over it,” he laughs. “I was able to rearrange my schedule to have four consecutive days off to come out here to backpack. A little bit of fresh air and solitude really puts things into perspective. It’s, uh, what do they call it? Self-care?”

You chuckle. “Yeah. Self-care. That’s good, I wish I could go out into the forest more often, it’s really great when you need some space.”

“It is,” Frankie says. 

“So, do you know what you want?” you ask. “I should probably move on to other customers, you know?”

“Of course, I’m just here for the soup of the day and some coffee,” he says. He hasn’t even touched the menu once. “And one of those big cinnamon rolls to go.”

“Got it,” you say, giving him a smile before walking away from his table.

.

Three weeks later Frankie shows up again after another backpacking trip. He orders coffee and a cinnamon roll to go. It’s busy and you barely get a chance to say anything to him, but you make sure you’re the one to bring him the paper bag and cup. 

“Thanks,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” you say. “I hope you’re having a good day.”

“I was,” he says. “But it’s better than good now that I’ve gotten to talk to my favorite waitress.”

You feel your face heat up and you smile down to the ground. “Thanks. It’s, uh, good to see you too.”

“I should be going,” he says. “I’ve got an evening shift to get to, and it’s still an hour drive to the city.”

“Right, well, uh,” you stuttered. “Drive safely.”

“I will.” Frankie grins at you. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

You can’t keep your heart from swelling. You’re sure, at this point, that you  _ really _ would love to ask him out but there’s no way you can do that to a client without feeling guilty. Right? But maybe…

“I’m always glad to see you stop by,” you say. 

“Thank you, um, goodbye? See you soon.”

“Yep, see you soon.”

He turns around, pulling open the heavy wooden door and walks out of the restaurant, leaving you standing amongst a small crowd of customers, waiting to be seated. You’re going to be totally fucked the next time you see him.

.

Surprisingly, the next time comes sooner than you expect. It’s two weeks later and it’s a slow day, like the day you first spoke to him. 

It’s quiet in the restaurant. Sunlight is streaming in through the windows casting squares of light across the tables. The kitchen is all but stalled, knowing that there’s at least another hour of this casual vibe before the dinner crowd starts to show. 

Spring is in its last days now, the warm air outside heating up the log structure you’re in. It’s when the old scent, somewhat musty but rich and wooden, like campfires and warm blankets, comes out. That’s why you love working here. You get to be in this monument to the history of the mountain range. The forest fires and loggers, the novelty of construction as the highway connected the coast and the valley, stretching back to the people who have lived here long before, the connectedness with the animals who have in the past years started to return in droves to the wilderness, now protected. The rivers that wind beneath the trees, starting up here as small creeks, trickling alongside dirt roads until they join the tributaries of the great river running down into the ocean. 

Out in the parking lot lies a museum of artifacts: old lumber mills and railroad cars, anything that helps the passerby create a better picture of the land they cross. 

It’s an effort the owners are proud of. 

The grinding of gravel gets louder as it’s clear there are a couple of cars pulling up. It takes a few slams of doors that you can hear, even though they’re far away through thick walls, before the obvious ruckus of laughter and excitement bubbles up from behind the door, bursting into the restaurant in a loud mess of bodies jumping up on each other and talking. It’s like teenage boys, drugged on happiness. Except it’s five adult men. One of them, in the back, a little less hyper, smiles up at you. Frankie. 

He raises his hand in greeting. You nod back. One of the other guys, tall and blonde and a bit younger than the rest, walks up to the hostess station.

“Frankie here says you have the best food in a 50-mile radius and we’re all hungry, there’s five of us,” he says.

“Right, well, we’re pretty much empty so you can choose wherever you want to sit, and I’ll bring over some menus. Were you all out backpacking?” An easy assumption, both given Frankie’s history here and their clothes. 

“Yeah, the last couple days,” another guy says. He’s got a full beard and the blandest voice you’ve ever heard. 

You glance over at Frankie who’s not even trying to make eye contact with you, staring at the ground while one of his friends whispers something in his ear. You wish he would look up at you. Anything to see his face. 

“The weather’s been incredible,” the bearded guy says. 

“That it has,” you say as the group starts walking towards a table near the windows overlooking the creek and you trail behind, grabbing a stack of menus. 

You wish Frankie would look up at you. Just for a moment. 

As you hand out the menus, he does. You motion to set one down in front of him and instead, he reaches out to take it from your hand. His fingers grace against yours, briefly, and you’re sure you’re reading too much into it because he’s barely looked at you since he entered but you want it to mean something. 

He smiles and it shouldn’t but it makes your heart soar. 

You don’t want to hover around the men, even though you wish you could talk to Frankie, so you go back to the hostess station after checking in with the few other people eating in the restaurant. 

It’s calm, and that’s nice. The quiet is disturbed by the joyous conversation from Frankie and his friends, but it’s calm. If you listen hard enough you can pick out his voice from the laughter but you’re never brave enough to listen to what he’s saying. 

You think they’ve had enough time to decide and you go to take their orders. As you’re walking over, you can’t help but listen in on what they’re saying, loud and obvious as they are.

“...come on, man, you have to do  _ something _ .”

“Yeah, you’ve been talking about this girl for months.”

“Is she here today? Cause if she is, you gotta—”

“Benny, quit it. We’re not pressuring him. And anyway, guys weekend isn’t over until we’re back in town.”

“You sure, cause—”

“ _ Stop _ !” That’s Frankie. He glances up at you, and then his eyes dart back to the rest of the group. He whispers, much louder than you think he intends, “ _ she’s coming. _ ”

“Oh, so it is _ —ouch!” _

“You deserved it.”

All of the guys look up at you at the same time, and you’re good at pretending you didn’t hear a conversation but this is a bit harder than usual. You’re not sure what to make of it. There’s an obvious conclusion to make, but taking things out of context has left you mistaken in the past. Who’s to say that isn’t about to happen now?

You take their orders and move on. 

The rest of their visit remains distant from you, and Frankie barely spares you a glance. It’s not like he owes you one, but with your stupid crush, you’re disappointed. 

At the very least when they leave the building, Frankie’s the last one out and he lingers behind, holding the door ajar as his friends continue out to their cars.

“Thank you,” he says, a smile on his face. “It’s always good to see you.”

“You too,” you say.

.

Almost two months go by with no word. 

Late summer brings an even richer green to the mountains. The creek runs a little dryer but it still rains enough to keep it flowing. Your favorite part of summer is all the families, constantly heading to the beach for day trips. 

Other waiters at your restaurant hate the families. They’re too loud or hard to handle, some say. The parents make too many demands. But for you it’s hard to get angry at kids, either excited for a day in the waves, or tired after a long day of play. It’s hard to get angry at the parents who are surprisingly patient. Probably because a day at the beach is a day they’re not at work. 

The best part is looking out the window and seeing the kids playing after their meals in the old train cars and around the sawmill. None of it is dangerous anymore, and they all find so much joy in it all. 

Sometimes the older kids will go down to the creek, pointing out the iron sculptures the restaurant owners set up across the water, nestled enough into the forest to create some excitement. The kids down there usually find the trail that leads off down the creek. It’s only now that the dirt path isn’t five inches deep in mud or water, and they’ll explore the single mile loop amongst the few deciduous trees. 

Summer is beautiful up in the mountains. 

You’re working at the hostess station when Frankie comes in, one in a constant flow of people today. There’s already a thirty-minute wait, but you can see the dark cloud in Frankie’s eyes, the one of emptiness and pain and you already feel bad for what you’re going to have to tell him. 

He was clearly out backpacking, but instead of his usual reinvigorated look, he appears worn down and ragged. There’s a tear in his nylon hiking pants that you know must have taken quite a fall and a sharp rock or thorn to cause. Around his eyes is the sinking feeling of exhaustion. 

“It’s just me,” he says, standing in front of you.

“Okay, it’s gonna be a while, probably thirty minutes,” you say.

“Right, that’s fine, I can wait outside, right?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, and he turns around without another word and exits the building.

The thirty minutes go by without you really noticing. There are enough people to keep your mind occupied. 

You see Frankie’s name on the list next and you remember where he is. You step out from behind the station and make towards the door, about to check and see if he’s sitting nearby when it opens and he walks in, perfectly on time.

“I was just looking for you.” You smile. “Your table’s ready.”

“Great,” he says. It’s empty. You wish you could fix it as you walk him across the room.

“How are you doing?” you say. It’s also empty. But mostly because you don’t know what else to say. It’s not like you’ve spoken much with him. 

“I just want my table and to be left alone,” he says. 

Maybe it would hurt  _ even _ more if he had any energy left in his body, but even without it still managed to sting. 

“Right, well, here you are,” you gesture to the table you arrive at and set the menu down in front of him as he takes a seat. “Your server will be with you shortly.”

That’s the last thing you say to him today. 

You see him every once and a while when you take a family to a table, but it’s not your place anymore to talk to him. You’re not sure he’d even appreciate a smile. 

You come back from your break and his table is empty. Your wish you could have at least wished him goodbye.

.

The past week has been rough. Every night as you fell asleep you could only think of how sad Frankie had looked. Why had you gotten so attached? How could you? And why did his words hurt so much? His coldness replays in your head every spare second. The man who had somehow ingrained himself so deep in your consciousness with only a few conversations, and now he seemed to not care. You’re not sure if you’re ever going to see him again.

It was your own mistake for developing a crush. 

You go into work this morning, ready for another crazy day of vacationing families, and things are busy the moment you walk out of the break room with your apron on. 

The first five hours of your day go by with no snags. Then comes the slow, post-lunch period. It’s these times that you struggle the most. Frankie always came during this time. It’s a constant reminder of how  _ not here _ he is. 

The dinner crowd starts to trickle in, and you only have two hours left until you can go home when the next time the door opens, in walks Frankie. 

You freeze, the woman who you’re helping probably isn’t happy for the moment, but you can’t think of anything but the fact that Frankie is  _ right there _ . And he’s not wearing backpacking clothes, instead donning a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt. He’s cleaned up his facial hair a bit since you last saw him and he stands a bit more confidently.

You don’t know why he’s here or what to expect. But maybe it isn’t your business anymore.

After you show the woman and her family to their table, you return to Frankie. 

“Hey,” he says, walking up to the station.

“Hi, welcome, is it just you today?” you say. You can’t help but keep your customer service voice on. You don’t want to risk getting hurt again. As much as you want to be friendly with him, you can’t. Not anymore. You wouldn’t date a customer. It’s always been that way. Why had he gotten under your skin enough to forget that?

You know that if given the chance, you’d still date him. That’s what scares you.

“It’s just me,” he says. 

“Okay, right this way,” you say. It’s cold, you know. He probably doesn’t deserve it. 

You seat him and move on. Another coworker arrives and you end up transitioning to more server duties. And not in a section where Frankie’s sitting. 

You see him get up to leave as you’re delivering a couple bags of takeout orders to people sitting in the lobby. There’s a bag with the to-go cinnamon roll he seems to often order with his name on it too. 

He makes it over to you and you hand over the bag. 

“Hey, um.” Frankie’s voice is shaking. “I wanted to apologize for the last time I came here. I was rude and you didn’t deserve that side of me.”

“It’s fine,” you instinctively say. It’s the worker in you, wanting not to lose a customer. “Don’t worry about it, everyone has bad days.”

“Yeah,” he says, “Hey, I, uh…”

“Frankie, I have to get back to work, I’m sorry.”

“Right, of course. See you later, I guess?”

You nod. “See you later.”

He walks out the door. As it closes behind him, a sick feeling in your stomach sets in. What was once a beautiful and joyful relationship is now almost nothing. You’re back to being strangers again. 

When you finish your shift an hour later, your body is ready to collapse. You hate being on your feet all day, and you’re excited to drive home and eat dinner, sit down and relax for the evening. You want to forget Frankie, and maybe the bottle of wine that’s sitting on your counter needs to be opened. Maybe you need to call some friends over on your next day off. Maybe you need to drive down the mountain to a beach town or something to go clubbing for the first time in years. 

You leave out the back door and walk around the building to the parking lot. The fresh piney air is welcome, and the warm breezes and trickling sound of the creek embrace you. It’s a good way to try to forget. Just melting into nature. 

You’re past the building, closer to your car parked on the far end of the gravel lot when you look down at the spot by the creek that’s easiest to access.

Frankie’s standing there, looking across the water at the sculpture garden. 

You walk down towards him. Maybe it’s worth trying to have a discussion. 

When you reach him, you’re not sure what to say. Does he want to talk to you? He doesn’t say a word for a while, just looks out at the creek. It’s peaceful here, it always has been. 

“I’m really sorry for snapping at you last week,” he says, breaking the silence.

“It’s okay, Frankie, like I said, we all have bad days.”

“It’s not okay though. It was rude.” He pauses for a long while. “I had just lost a good friend. It was sort of my fault—I mean, I didn’t kill him or anything, but I feel somewhat responsible—I was out hiking trying to get away. I wasn’t thinking when I came in, but it’s not an excuse to be rude.”

You nod. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Thanks,” Frankie says. 

“Why are you still here?”

“I was waiting for you to get off. I wanted to apologize.” 

Waiting for you? He must have been out here for an hour. At least it’s a sunny day and not too cold, but that’s still a long time, especially if he didn’t know when you’d be done. You’re not sure how to respond.

“Actually,” Frankie continues, looking over at you, “I wanted to ask you if you wanted to go on a date with me?”

“What?”

“A date, if you want to. I don’t know if you like me or anything, but I like you. And I’d like to get to know you better outside work. And well, I’ve wanted to ask you out for a while now. Took a lot of convincing on the part of my friends to work up the guts. But maybe it was a bad idea—”

“Yes,” you interrupt. “Or no, it wasn’t a bad idea. Yes, I’ll go out on a date with you. Frankie, I’d love to.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’ve, uh, maybe wanted to for a while now too.”

Frankie laughs. “That’s good to hear. Um, I was thinking maybe you’d want to split the cinnamon roll with me? That is, if you’re not fed up with them after working around them all day.” He shuffles a bit and holds up the bag. “And not like that would be the date. I want to take you out, something official. I just also would love to split the cinnamon roll.”

“I’d love to.” You smile. And there’s a surge of bravery that causes you to say, “Maybe it’s a little forward to ask you to come over, but my house is a few minutes down the highway and off one of the dirt roads. The cinnamon rolls are better warmed up and eaten off a plate. Do you want to come over?”

He nods. “That would be amazing.”


	2. sweeter than a cinnamon roll

You pull into the grassy area off of the driveway in front of your house. The crunching of gravel turns to the soft bumps of dirt as you slow to a stop. You turn off your car and the engine sound fades away. 

What’s left is not the silence that usually embraces you upon return home, but the gravel sound behind you as Frankie’s truck pulls in next to you. You jump out of your car to meet him, and as he’s exiting his own vehicle, you notice it’s empty inside. You figured he had changed after backpacking, but there’s no evidence of a trip. Nothing. 

“Welcome to my place,” you say to Frankie. 

His eyes dart around your property as he grins. It’s a small grassy clearing in the forest, surrounded by towering Douglas firs and Western red cedars, stretching almost two-hundred feet into the cloudy sky. The majority of the space is overgrown, the bushes nestled into the woods tumbling out into the lawn. You had decided to let things return to a somewhat more natural state when you purchased the place. The back corner of the grass had been torn up for a large garden, and the rest you’d rather allow the forest to take over.

Your house is a small, prefabricated cabin you had bought one year into owning the property when the house that used to stand here had built up enough need for repairs that the cost of fixing it up was more than tearing it down yourself and buying a new house. It was a setback, sure, and the shipping costs to get it here were substantial, but you were glad to have done it. 

It’s beautiful. A wooden deck lines the front, and the closer corner has floor-to-ceiling windows looking into the living area. It’s a bit more modern than the rest of the homes around, but it’s nothing like some of the expensive cabins on the other side of town, grand villas with roundabout driveways owned by people in the city who come up for a few weekends a year. 

Frankie seems to like it, smiling back at you and saying, “It’s amazing.”

“Thanks, it’s uh…” You stumble over what to say. There are no words to describe this moment and you’re not sure if you should have even started to respond. 

It’s weird having Frankie here, or anywhere except the restaurant. But you’re excited. 

“Here, let’s go in, I can put that into the oven to warm it up,” you say. 

“Sounds good,” Frankie says. He hovers a moment, one arm swinging with his keys in his hand, the other holding the paper bag with the cinnamon roll with a tight enough grip the brown paper crinkles around his fingers. 

You keep walking to your house and turn around when you reach the door. Frankie started moving a second before and is trailing behind you. It’s awkward, mostly because it’s new, but it’s okay. You’re smiling through it all, still in disbelief that your feelings are reciprocated. 

He jogs to catch up when you open the door and hold it for him, and he steps inside ahead of you. 

“Do I take off my shoes, or” he trails off.

“No, you don’t have to,” you tell him. 

He nods and turns the corner into the living space and kitchen. 

“Oh wow,” he breathes out. “It’s amazing.”

If you’re being honest, it really is. You love the white walls and the huge windows looking out into the woods. Even if the structure itself is small, it feels big enough to be comfortable as you stand inside. When it was brought up here and installed, the first night you slept in it you were scared it would feel too big. That it would be lonely. But instead, it was perfect.

Small enough, if only in the floor plan, to not feel like you were so alone every night, but big enough, if only by appearance, to feel like you really lived somewhere. That you had accomplished at least so much as to own a beautiful home. 

“You have good taste,” Frankie says, gesturing out at your living room. “I love the decor.”

“Thanks,” you say. He sets down the bag on your countertop. “You can sit down.” You gesture to the small table. “I’ll put this in the oven.”

He nods while you pull out the cinnamon roll and remove the cling wrap before setting it down on a baking sheet to slide into your oven. You pull out a plate and two forks, set them down on the counter, and look up.

Frankie isn’t sitting at the table, rather wandering around the room. He stops in front of the big windows and stares for a while. You’re pretty sure he senses you staring at his back because he turns around. 

“It’s incredible,” he says, and that’s all it takes for you to become embarrassed. 

You feel your cheeks heat up as you stumble over what to say. You’re not used to this at all, and Frankie being so kind, so complimentary, of your space is overwhelming. It may be perfect for you, but you’re sure Frankie, living down in the city, must have a nicer place, with faster wifi and central heating and better plumbing and probably just a bigger and better house. 

“It’s not much,” you stammer out, hoping you aren’t ruining things as you speak. 

Frankie walks back over to you. “Y/N, it’s amazing. You live up here, in my favorite mountain range, in this beautiful home, with a view of the woods and the creek is back there and you have a garden and it  _ really _ is amazing. It’s so peaceful. And I know it’s probably hard, because it’s remote, but it’s probably also calming for the same reason. And I love it.”

He reaches a hand out to you and you grab it. It’s a startling intimacy, something you haven’t done with many people over the years. 

“You like it here, don’t you?” Frankie asks.

You nod. “Yeah, I do. It’s a special place for me.”

“Then don’t ever say ‘it’s not much.’ To anyone,” he says. It’s not a command. It doesn’t feel invasive. It’s encouraging and accepting and welcoming and you want to sink into his eyes as he speaks. “If you love it, then nothing else matters.”

You look down at your hand in his and nod again.

His hand is warm and soft and there’s a small tattoo on his wrist you hadn’t ever noticed. You realize he, at some point, had taken off his jacket and is only wearing the button-down he wore earlier today in the restaurant. His arms are exposed and your eyes float up them. 

There’s a split-second where you chastise yourself for looking. A habit you had developed while working, mostly for Frankie, but in general, it was good practice. But this isn’t the restaurant. It’s okay to look. He likes you. You like him. And you’re alone in your house. You’re pretty sure that gives you license to do about as much looking as you want to.

“Do you want something to drink?” you ask, realizing your hospitality has been a little lacking. 

“Just water would be nice,” Frankie says, and you squeeze his hand before letting go and turning around to face the kitchen.

“You can sit down. I’ll take out the cinnamon roll now,” you say. You pull two glasses out of the cabinet and fill them with water before pulling the dessert from the oven. You slide it off the pan onto the plate and place the two forks next to it. 

The cinnamon rolls where you work are huge. The place is known for them, and people come in often to have them with a family of four. You don’t know if Frankie shares them with others whenever he orders one, or if he just rations it out for a few days. You used to do that when you started working there. Now you rarely have them. Not because they’re not good. You got tired of them pretty quickly, and now that you consume in moderation again they taste so much better. 

You bring the plate over to the table and then return to grab the glasses of water. You slip into the seat next to Frankie and he takes a fork and cuts into the cinnamon roll. 

The sound he makes when he takes a bite is a moan that brings up feelings you didn’t even know you had about him, and his eyes flutter closed as he keeps chewing. You try not to stare at his next and his jaw and his lips as he eats but he’s beautiful. 

He opens his eyes and your eyes dart back to the plate. You take a bite of the cinnamon roll. Maybe he didn’t notice.

“I always have them cold when I get them to go, I didn’t know you could turn them back into  _ this _ at home,” he says. 

You laugh. “It’s just 3 to 5 minutes in the oven, not too hot, but enough that the syrup starts to melt. Same thing we do with them when they’re ordered past noon and they’re not fresh out of the oven.”

“Good to know, I might have to order five next time and keep four in the freezer for later.”

“Or you could come up here more often to get one,” you say. It’s a hopeful statement, and you instantly regret the pressure it puts on Frankie. 

Except he just smiles. “Maybe I will.”

You both return to eating in a pleasant silence. You’re sure you  _ should _ be talking about things. Having a conversation. Getting to know each other. But you’re happy Frankie’s the sort of person you can be comfortably quiet with. 

You look out the window to Frankie’s truck and remember seeing it when you got out, how empty it had been. 

“Hey, Frankie,” you say and he looks up. “I didn’t see any backpacking stuff in your truck, you’re usually up here for that. Why are you up here today?”

Frankie turns around to look at the truck too as if he needs to confirm to himself that it’s empty. 

“I, uh,” Frankie starts. “I came up just to see you.”

“You did?” is all you’re able to get out before you freeze up, unsure what that means. Frankie came all the way up into the mountains to see you? Was his intention to ask you out? Would he really drive that far to ask someone to eat a cinnamon roll with him?

“I did, I—” Frankie’s speech is cut into fragments, it’s obvious how shy he’s gotten— “I came up because I wanted to apologize. And maybe ask you out if you forgave me. And, I don’t know, I guess it worked.”

Your laughter is what breaks you out of the frozen stature you held. “You guess? I think it worked pretty well.”

“And I’m glad it did.”

“Me too.”

“You know how I said I had a friend pass away?”

“Yeah?” You’re not sure where this is going.

“He was a real asshole. But we still liked him. The five of us, we’re real close. And I used to talk about you to them. About how every time I came up here, you always seemed to be working, and you were so nice and beautiful and I loved talking to you,” Frankie’s voice has dropped in volume but raised in pitch. “Well, he was always the one to pester me about asking you out. The other guys, they’d, you know, they’d say stuff, tease, and whatnot. But Tom? He’d go at it. Telling me I’d regret it if I didn’t give it a shot. That I needed to tell you as soon as possible.

“And then after he died, I came up here and was an asshole and you didn’t deserve a second of that, and I felt so bad driving home. Not only had I hurt you, which was bad enough, but I felt like I had sort of tainted Tom’s memory. He would have stopped me in the parking lot and told me to march back in and apologize that day if he was still here. It took me a week, and um, I’m really sorry it took that long.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” you tell Frankie. “I’m just glad to have you back. And here. And that you feel the same.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I thought I was going to combust if you came in again, looking so beautiful and with that voice of yours and I had to squash down my feelings yet again. I was always waiting for when you would come through the door, and dreaded when you left.”

It’s now Frankie’s turn to say “You did?”

You laugh. “I did.”

Frankie scoots his chair a little closer to yours and rests a hand on your thigh. “I’m not usually brave enough to ask this, but can I kiss you?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” you say, a smile settling on your face. 

Frankie reaches up to hold your chin as he leans in, and your lips touch in an electrifying connection. You can feel your whole body react. Not with arousal, no. It’s not that kind of kiss. It’s the full-body feeling of connection and completeness. You’re kissing Frankie and he’s kissing back, such that you know the two of you are whole. 

You can taste the cinnamon on his tongue as you both open your mouths a little more, allowing the other further access. It’s a long moment, and your arms settle around Frankie, trying to get closer without outright climbing onto his lap. It’s everything you had dreamt of over the long months of pining, everything you imagined whenever he walked through the thick, wooden restaurant doors, everything you hoped for when his hand brushed against yours when you passed him a menu or a cup of coffee. But also so much more. 

You’re the first one to pull off, and Frankie’s whole body follows you for a second, before settling back down in his seat. 

“That was…” you start. 

“Perfect,” Frankie says. 


End file.
